State authorities allege that Donovan died April 1 after being beaten by mentally ill housemates in two incidents. His case, still unresolved, sheds a harsh light on the dangerous population mix inside Illinois' new breed of nursing home.

At south suburban Burnham, the elderly are far outnumbered by younger psychiatric patients. And as of June, 65 of its roughly 300 residents were ex-convicts, according to records from the state Department of Public Health. Administrators at the home say the count of felons recently fell to 43.

State health inspectors have cited Burnham for numerous violations and last year found that in the previous 12 months it had failed to inform the department of 16 patient abuse allegations as required by law, including one case in which a younger resident allegedly beat an elderly housemate.

The facility is part-owned by Morris Esformes, a longtime nursing home operator and philanthropist who has given millions to synagogues, schools and medical facilities in the United States and Israel. He said he pioneered the practice of housing younger mentally ill adults in his homes starting in the 1970s, and did so out of compassion.

"This is not just about filling beds; this is about caring for people," said Esformes, who described himself as part-owner of 28 facilities here and in Florida. When states began to shutter psychiatric asylums, "these people had no place to go, and nobody gave a damn about them."

Esformes and a top aide, Sue Blok, challenged the Cook County medical examiner's finding that Donovan's death was a homicide, saying the government investigation began with the premise that Donovan was killed. As for his cause of death, "We have absolutely no clue," Esformes said.

Donovan was a big man, more than 6 feet tall, with thin white hair and a baby face. In his youth he worked as a helper on his uncle's beer route, delivering kegs. He married and had a daughter, his family said.

But Donovan's prospects were swallowed by his disabilities. His right leg was amputated, and at Burnham he often could be found on the patio in his wheelchair, a cigarette in one hand and a Pepsi in the other, pestering aides for small favors. Donovan's medical records depict him as nonviolent but cantankerous, and cite "a history of being verbally inappropriate with staff and other residents," according to a state inspection report.

His sister Diana O'Connell and her husband, Jim, said they called Donovan every Monday. The O'Connells live part of the year in Florida, but when back in the Chicago area they sometimes brought Donovan his favorite meal: a double cheeseburger, fries and a chocolate shake.

"My baby brother, he led a very simple life. He didn't have a lot of needs," Diana O'Connell said.

When Donovan moved to Burnham last fall after acting out at another home, the couple were struck by what they described as the facility's shabbiness.

"It was a big contrast from where he was before," Jim O'Connell said. "It was just nasty. I said, 'I don't know how this place stays open.' "

State public health records show Esformes is part-owner of 14 Illinois nursing homes. Federal authorities rate six of them as below or much below average in overall quality, and of the 11 that were rated on ratio of nursing staff to patients, all but two were below or much below average.

This year, state investigators alleged that a woman at one of those facilities, Bourbonnais Terrace near Kankakee, was sexually abused by a schizophrenic convicted murderer. The man's criminal background report was not included with his admission forms when he moved there 10 days earlier from a sister facility. Bourbonnais Terrace also failed to monitor him "to prevent this abuse" despite allegations he had exposed himself to another female resident the day before, inspectors wrote.

That nursing home is contesting a $20,000 fine but has agreed to strengthen the monitoring of potentially dangerous residents.

Other Esformes homes have racked up safety infractions or been the target of law-enforcement probes. In 2006, without admitting wrongdoing, Esformes and his son joined a group of businessmen that paid $15.4 million to settle civil health care fraud claims by the U.S. Justice Department in connection with Florida assisted-living facilities he co-owned.

Esformes does not hide his disdain for government regulators, saying they don't care about patients. "It's all about dollars and cents to them," he said.

He fervently defends his record as a nursing home operator and said the Tribune's reporting on past problems at his homes falsely conveys the impression that Burnham was poorly run and unsafe. The newspaper's focus is unfair and anti-Semitic, he charged, saying: "It's easy to take a potshot at a Jew."

"I am a damn good person. ... You are hurting me terribly," Esformes said. "You are going on a witch hunt, and it's not right. Do you tell the world that I give away 45 percent of my income to charity?"

Burnham police have reported 52 alleged assaults and fights at the home since 2007. "Gang fight on patio," one police report said.

"You can buy weed, alcohol, what you want there," said Anthony Gales, 45, a paraplegic who left Burnham after he was charged with cocaine possession a few blocks away in November.

Esformes said police and state reports on assaults often exaggerate the severity of minor incidents. Residents call 911 when they lose a quarter in a vending machine, he said, and authorities cite his facilities for infractions so they can collect hefty fines and boost state coffers.

"Public Health treats us like we are in Nazi Germany, and you can quote me on that," he said.

In March, Donovan apparently made the mistake of antagonizing a 24-year-old mentally ill drug addict with a lengthy criminal record that included prostitution and assault charges. She had shuttled among jail cells, psychiatric wards and the street; hospital records describe her as hostile and physically abusive.

The facility did not have a care plan to deal with her aggressive behavior, according to a state inspection report.

On March 22, according to that report, the young woman hit Donovan in the face after he called her a derogatory name. No physician saw him, the report said.

At some point between March 28 and March 30, a different resident -- a man with a history of hostile and violent behavior -- also hit Donovan in the face, the state report said. A Burnham employee reported the incident to a superior, but the nursing director later told state inspectors she didn't look into the matter because she thought the two "were only horse playing."

Esformes said Donovan fell from his wheelchair around then and may have hurt himself that way.

When the O'Connells called Donovan from Florida on March 30, he sounded disoriented and didn't recognize them. "He said, 'Who is this? Who is this?' Then, bing! He hung up," Jim O'Connell told the Tribune. "That had never happened before. ... He had no idea who I was."

On April 1, a nurse's aide found dried blood under Donovan's bed and on his lips, the state report said. Burnham staff sent him to South Shore Hospital for evaluation.

The O'Connells said a Burnham employee called them that day but merely said Donovan had fallen and was being sent to the hospital.

Around 11 that night, a hospital nurse called. Donovan was dead.

During the next few days, a Burnham supervisor asked at least two nurses to rewrite nursing notes and an incident report related to Donovan, public health investigators alleged in their report. Inspectors also said the facility did not generate a required incident report about the 24-year-old hitting Donovan until four days after his death. Esformes vigorously denied that his staff altered paperwork to cover up any wrongdoing.

At the Cook County morgue, the O'Connells viewed Donovan's body on a big screen. "It didn't even look like my brother," Diana O'Connell said. "His head was so swollen. His face was blown up like a balloon. He had a lot of bruising and a black eye. We just couldn't believe it."

His death was ruled a homicide, caused by "multiple injuries due to an assault," according to the 10-page medical examiner's report. Donovan's doctor told state health inspectors he had suffered a head injury of great force, like a blow from a baseball bat.

The 24-year-old woman later told police she slammed Donovan's head with a chair after he insulted her, knocking him to the floor, according to a law-enforcement source who asked not to be named because the case is ongoing.

Esformes and Blok said police told them the same thing. But, they said, the 98-pound woman couldn't have picked up the heavy chair in Donovan's room. The Tribune is not naming the woman because she has not been charged.

Blok also said Donovan "exhibited no difference whatsoever in his behavior" and ate breakfast before going to the hospital for evaluation.

The state health department has fined Burnham $50,000 for safety breaches found in an inspection following Donovan's death, and since July 24 the department has denied payments for new admissions until the facility "comes into substantial compliance with the federal requirements," a department spokeswoman said. Burnham is contesting the fine and citations.

Diana O'Connell is still stunned by what happened to her brother. "It wasn't like he could stand up and protect himself; he was in a wheelchair," she said. "When a person is put into a facility, you would hope it would be a safe, caring and protective environment."